Eye for a Ghost
by Des Iries
Summary: A FULL REWRITE. Erik has been dead for years,haunting the Opera house as a ghost.What happens when two new mangers take over and brings their daughter with them?She the only one who can see and hear Erik.Can she help him become human again?
1. Chapter 1

_A dark figure limped to the closet. It was trying to be sneaky but the limp ruined the whole effect. Closing its hand around the doorknob it wondered if this was a good idea, but then remembering the wonderful review that __HurogWalker__ had left, guilt and shame burned the figure's face. Nodding to its self. It pulled open the door and peered inside the tiny dark room._

_A hiss was heard as well as a rattling. _

_The figure pulled the chain that was attached to the light. The room was instantly flooded with a pale yellow light. The light finally showed the face of a writer long forgotten. Des Iries._

_The hiss and rattling came from a skeleton. Jack Lennox. Long since forgotten._

_The skeleton lifted a bony hand and sheltered his empty eye sockets from the sudden light. He looked up into the guilty face of his creator and writer. If a skeleton could show empoisons on its face then it would have been shock on this ones. "Oh," Jack rasped, voice long since unused, "you do remember me. What do you want?" he snapped._

_Des winced. She was never one to take verbal abuse, but she knew she deserved it. "I've been busy?" She tried weakly._

_Jack snorted. "Too busy to write? Too busy to let your muse write for you? Let me guess…you got a review that touched you and you now feel that desire to write again but you aren't sure how to began? Am I right?"_

_Des nodded. He knew her too well. _

_Jack crossed his arms and turned his head away. "Why should I help you? Once you moved down here to Missouri you forgot all about me. You shoved me into this closet and forgot about me."_

"_I'm sorry. Things happened." Des said as she put her hands on her hips. She was already getting tired of his pity party. True she got busy and stopped writing and put him in a closet, but she was the one that created him. As she had put her hands on her hips it was then Jack saw the glint of gold on her left hand. The ring finger._

"_What's that?" he pointed a long bony finger at her hand._

"_What?" she looked at her hand and a sly smile came on her face. She shrugged, "Just a ring."_

_Jack jumped up from the place he had been sitting in, dust coming off him in clouds. He grabbed her hand. "Just a ring? This isn't just a ring. It's a wedding ring!" he looked back at her. "You got married?"_

_Des grinned and nodded, "Yep. I'm a Mrs."_

"_Why didn't you invite me to the wedding?" _

"_Because Jack, you would've caused a stir. He has no imagination. See I told him about you and he doesn't believe me. I stopped trying to convince him that you existent."_

"_No imagination? How do you two get along?" Jack asked_

"_Quite well surprisingly. Goes to show opposites attract."_

"_How old is he?" Jack suddenly asked.._

_Des raised an eyebrow, "Why all the questions?"_

_Jack shrugged, "You know me. Besides I'm your muse, I have a right to know."_

_"Fine, he's 44, tall blonde, blue eyed, stocky and used to play collage football. Are you happy now?" Des pulled her hand back._

"_He's 18 years older then you?"_

"_Yeah so?"_

"_Yeah whatever. So what are we doing?" Jack asked as he finished dusting himself off and walked over to the computer chair and sat down._

_Des rolled her brown eyes as Jack began to look though her files._

"_God, these are so old! Don't you ever update these?"_

"_No. I told you I was busy." Des limped over to the desk trying not to show the bad limp she had. Please don't let him notice; please don't let him not- she thought._

"_Hey Des, what happened to your knee?"_

"_Bad fall. A very bad fall. I fought with the ice and the ice won. I busted my kneecap to pieces so now I have this lovely gimp." Des rolled her black jeans up and stared at the lumpy scared mess that was once her right knee. _

"_Ouch. Ok then," Jack turned away and opened up two folders. "So what are you wanting to do? I see that you have it here that you want to ether rewrite 'Eye for a Ghost' or finish 'Twisted Love'."_

"_Yeah. I have other ideas but right now I want to work on ether of those two." Des said as she leaded against the large dark wood desk that was a present from her husband. It wasn't brand new but it was still beautiful and made of cherry wood. _

"_Alright then." He stood and Des took the offered seat and stared at the open Word Document. "Alright then," he repeated, "let's see if we lost our touch." He cracked his long fingers and began to work his muse's magic._

**Yeah, I know the whole talking with your muse is an odd and old fad, but I have fun with it and I think Jack gained a small fanclub of his own. Anyway, I'm rewriting this story mainly because of ****HurogWalker. She left me a wonderful review and inspired me to get up off my butt and start writing again. She is also my beta for this story and is so wonderful. I'm fleshing out the characters and chapters and adding more without (I hope) taking away from this story. **

**The original copy I will keep and will be available upon request but I will say that this new written will be better.**  
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**Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera.**

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1871, Paris, France

Under the Paris Opera House

XxX

A man sat on an elaborate bed staring at a monkey musical box. This man was known in the Opera Garnier from the stagehands to the ballet rats, from the opera divas to the managers. He was known by many names: The Phantom of the Opera, the Opera Ghost, the Angel of Music, the Red Death, the Monsieur le Fantome; though he was known as Erik to even fewer.

This broken man that once held the Opera House in his control sat on this gold bed wondering where it had all gone wrong. He could smell the burning wood and cloth from even this far down. The opera house was burning and the structure may or may not hold. Tons of wood and marble could come crashing down any minute, but he didn't care.

Reaching out a hand he lightly touched the music box. It began to play, the monkey lightly tapping the cymbals in its hands together.

"_Masquerade…paper faces on parade…. Masquerade…. hide your face, so the world will never find you…"_ he sang softy, brokenly. He touched his hand to the deformed side of his face shuddering at the feel of the rough and misshapen flesh.

Sensing another person, he turned his head to see the brown haired angel that he had obsessed over for the last nine years. The tears that were shining in her brown eyes matched the ones in his eyes. Walking slowly toward him she held out a hand.

He reached for her, longing to touch her, hoping against hope that she had returned to pledge her love to him. "_Christine, I love you…"_

Christine blinked back her tears and took his hand, only to place the ring that he had given her into his palm. She reached out and touched the misshapen side of his face before turning and hurrying off.

The tears that had threatened to fall earlier then fell. Looking down at the ring he barely heard Christine sing in the distance.

"_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…"_

And then he heard the loathsome/unbearable call of the boy answer her, "_Say the word and I will follow you…"_

The broken Phantom rose and walked out of the stone room, watching as the boat disappeared through the descending grill into the darkness of the underground canal. He met her gaze as his Angel of Music sung one last song for him.

"_Share each day with me…each night…each morning…"_ her voice faded away as she disappeared.

His gaze still fixed on where he last saw her, he sings out one final time. "_You alone can make my song take flight—It's over now, the Music of the Night…" _

The notes died away and it was then that the Phantom heard the noise of the oncoming mob. He looked around his home one last time before picking up a large golden candelabrum and setting fire to his world. With that done, he begins smashing the mirrors, all save one. Grabbing two last items from his possessions, he turned to the last mirror and smashed it, reveling a hidden tunnel. He slipped in and pulled down a curtain that had not yet caught fire, concealing the entrance just as the mob arrived at the portcullis.

Walking through the deep passages, the former Phantom slipped on his mask as he took the twists and turns that only he knew. They led him up to the burning Opera house. There weren't many people now, only a few that were disoriented. He went past the dead and dying, still staying to the shadows. His intense glowing eyes now dim with a darkened defeat. His stiff posture had left him and his head bowed as he walked toward his chosen fate. Flames creped ever closer, but he paid them no heed.

He kept walking, gasping for breath and coughing as the flames licked all around him and the smoke became thicker as he moved through the Opera House. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he came to the door that would lead him into Box Five. He shoved the door open and looked out across the auditorium before him. The fire had almost consumed the domed room; it was only a matter of time before Box Five was in flames. The red tongues of fire eagerly licked toward the golden box, the oppressive heat building. The wood was already smoking and the gold paint bubbled and peeled. The fumes were thick and combined with the smoke and overwhelming heat, the Phantom began to sweat as he continued to cough.

Looking over the burning auditorium from his spot, the Phantom slumped into his favorite red velvet chair. Drawing in a labored, rasping breath, he pulled out the second item he had grabbed; A sliver stiletto. A startling calm came over him then, as he waited, the tip of the blade just below his chest, the point digging in between his ribs. He knew that what he was about to do was an unforgivable sin but he didn't care. As he saw it, there was no point to going on. There was no place in this world for his musical genius. He knew that all of Paris would be looking for him once they found out he was no longer in the lair. True, he could easily slip past them, but then were would he go? The Opera House had been his home for so long, and he knew no other place. And if the mob did find him…an eternity in Hell would be a joy compared to what the so-called civilized men would do to him. He was past the point of no return, and if he were to die then it would be in his own way and in his own Opera House. The fire would surely destroy much of his body so that if he were found in the wreckage, his body would be of no use as a sideshow freak on display. He gasped in agony as the flames began to consume the box. The heat was blistering and intense, and as the flames crept closer he knew it was time. With the last of his strength he pushed the stiletto into his ribs. He felt the blinding pain as the blade bit into his skin and muscle, and then slipped between two ribs. He dug the blade upward and into his heart. All at once the pain from digging the knife in was gone. As he looked down at the blood soaking his chest, he felt a sad smile slowly pass across his face, and then he went limp.

He was still breathing, but he knew that he soon wouldn't be. With each breath and each slowing pump of his heart, blood poured out of his chest. He would be dead soon.

One of his hands fell to hang limply off the side of the chair, into the fire that had finally reached him. He felt the flames caress his limp fingers almost lovingly. Taking one last ragged breath, his last. He closed his eyes just as the flames engulfed Box Five and him.

XxX

Days later, people picked their way though the brunt shell that had once been the beautiful Opera House. The air in the burned-out husk of a building was already turning dank. The smells were horrible. The previous day it had rained, putting out the rest of the embers, which had continued to smolder. The odors that arose from the mess were a mixture of burnt wood, cloth, and flesh, as well as the scent of decaying flesh from the bodies of the dead. Volunteers helped pull bodies out of the wreckage in the hope that they could be identified and returned to their families. The corpse of Signor Ubaldo Piangi was one of many. Knowing somehow that the Phantom would be among the dead, Madame Giry was one of the groups of volunteers. It was Madame Giry that found Erik's body. His corpse wasn't completely burned. The Box had collapsed and protected much of his body from the flames. With tears streaming down her normally stern face, she looked upon the half burned body of the man she had tried to raise since he was nine years old, at the time only a child of twelve herself. She had been too young to play 'mother' to a mentally scarred child, but she had tried her best and offered what support she could until he had closed himself deeper into the hell that he was in and had continued to create for himself. She had known when he fell in love with Christine that no good would come of it for either of them. When he had taken the place of Signor Ubaldo Piangi the night of that disastrous opera, she had known that he would not live beyond that night. And now, looking down at her 'son,' she felt sorrow, but also happiness that he was finally at rest. Or so she thought.

She covered and hid his body until she could bury him in secrecy. When she was able to return to him, she used what she had hidden as well. With a lot of luck she somehow made her way down to the last of the cellars. She used her dancer's strength and an old stretcher to take him down to the last of the cellars. She dug it near the back so that no one but her would see the grave, or know that it was there, and the ground was high enough that when the rains raised the water level it would not wash the dirt away from him. She cared for his burnt body and dressed him with the utmost care in his favorite suit. She did not have a proper coffin but instead wrapped him in his heavy black velvet cape and then wrapped a heavy canvas cloth around that. She rolled him into the grave and covered him with the black sandy dirt, using the burnt mask and his violin, which he had cherished, at the head of the grave as a marker Last, she dug a small hole and dropped the ring, which he had feverishly clung onto even in death, into it, placing a flat stone on top.

She then stood and the unsheathed tears that had been threatening to spill finally did, rolling freely down her cheeks. Finally finished with her mournful, lonesome task, exhaustion washed over her. She wiped away the tears, leaving a smudge of dirt on her cheeks, and sighed before turning and walking away. As she left the grave, she pulled out the sliver stiletto that the Phantom had driven into his heart. She stared at it for a long moment and then slipped it back into her pocket, continuing on her way with her head held high despite her heavy heart.

Over the course of the years Madame Giry visited the grave occasionally. As the years wore on, however, she grew too old to climb up and down the stairs to the damp cellars. Her visits became fewer and fewer until one day she did not come at all. Nor did she come the next, or the next. She had passed on, as did everyone that remembered the stories. All that remained of the man known as the Phantom of the Opera, the Opera Ghost, the Angel of Music, the Red Death; the Monsieur le Fantome…of Erik…was a tale that was written down as a book.


	2. Chapter 2

**I didn't delete the story or start a new one for all those people that loved the story and favorite it. So you may have to go back one chapter and read the new chapter one.**

**A big thanks to HurogWalker**

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera.**

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135 years later

Paris, France

XxX

A black foreign car rolled to a stop outside a large gold and off-white building mid-evening in Paris, France. The occupants of the car had just come from a fifteen-hour flight, and had then spent a few laborious hours finding a rental car before making their way through the city to their destination. It had taken them another long hour to find the building. It wasn't that it was hard to miss; it was just navigating through unfamiliar streets. When they finally arrived, one of the passengers was grumpier then she normally was, while the other two were disheartened.

Finally they were rewarded by their efforts, stopped across the Avenue Opera, staring up at the grandiose site before them. Crowds of people passed by without seeming to notice; as if they didn't care that they were in the shadow of the great monument that loomed over them, taking up most of the sky. Each marble column glistened in the sunlight. Coming out of the stupefied trance they started the car again and circled the building, coming to a stop at the east entrance.

17-year-old 'Ashe' Chloe Ashley Thurbis and her parents climbed out of the car. Ignoring her parents excited chattering, she pushed her black sunglasses down slightly, sparing a glance up at the building that her parents had won management over. She knew that her parents found the building beautiful, a true piece of art, but she didn't. Not really. Grimacing at the overly bright gold and pure gaudiness of it, she decided the style was too ornate and that there was too much surfeit of sculpture, making her eyes weary. It was an opera house, but not just not any opera house. This was _The _Opera House. The _Paris _Opera house. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of the horrors that she would have to go through. She brought her sunglasses back up and dropped her head, looking down at the black leather of her boots, her long red and black hair falling across her face and eyes.

"Come on Chloe! Let's go inside!" Her mother called back to her.

She glanced up and saw her father already at the side entrance, unlocking the door, her mother right behind him, obviously eager to get inside. Letting out a small sigh, she grabbed her bag and ruefully followed her parents as they made their way into the famed building that was already sending cold chills racing up and down her spine.

When they entered, the side foyer was dark, which suited Ashe fine, but her father went over to the side of the large room and, after a slight noise, the hall began to light up. Robert had flipped the breaker and the lights were turning on, one chandelier at a time, down the length of the semi-dark hall. The lights reflected brightly off the gold in the hall. It was absolutely stunning, shining with peach colored marble and gold statues; everything seemed to glow. Her father reached out to touch one of the white marble columns. His wife and daughter watched him as he tenderly caressed the stone.

"Have you ever seen such masterful craftsmanship?" he asked.

Carrie gave a small, high-pitched giggle, while Ashe rolled her eyes. "Oh it is lovely, but let's hurry up so we can go on a tour of the opera."

"Wonderful idea. Lead the way Mademoiselle Thurbis," He said charmingly. As they started to walk through the large corridors, Ashe rolled her eyes again at her parent's antics, but all in all she was relived. Not one thing bothered her senses. But as they entered the main room, she shuddered, eyeing the Grand Staircase warily. Ashe stood just inside the doorway as her parents flipped the large light circuits, turning the lights on. As they started up the marble staircase, her mother noticed that Ashe was lagging behind.

She turned and whistled to get her daughter's attention. "Chloe, _come on!_ Pick up your feet."

Shooting her mother a dirty look, she bit her lip and walked into the room, having to use all her mental strength to push down the feelings that threatened to drown her. She clenched her teeth and trotted up the stairs, each step making her head throb with pain.

Ashe followed, catching up to them as they reached a large doorway that held two rich-looking dark wooden doors. In the archway above the doors were the words _Amphithéâtre Baignoire Orchestre_.

"And now my lovely wife and daughter, I give you… the auditorium." He pushed on one of the handles. "Brace yourselves."

Within seconds of opening the double doors and stepping inside, Carrie and Robert were standing in the center of the room, admiring the fabulous architecture and the massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Ashe however, walked slowly into the huge domed room. She came to stand right underneath the chandelier, her head tilted back as far as if would go, taking in everything she saw; the painted ceiling, the crystal chandelier, the blood-red velvet curtains, and the hardwood stage floor. Waves of feeling washed over her, wave after wave crashing into her until she believed that she would indeed drown. Her blood pounded in her ears as she started shivering. It was cold! The ghostly scent of smoke reached her nose and above the blood roaring in her ears, she could hear screams. Screams of pain, of fear. And above that, music. Operatic music. The song rose to a crescendo until she could hear the words clearly…

"The point of no return…no going back…say that you love…me…"

The words seemed familiar somehow, but before she could identify it, the music tapered off again until the screams rose over it, echoing in her ears. Ashe squeezed her eyes tightly closed, but it didn't stop the noise. She knew that placing her hands over ears wouldn't even help, so she didn't even bother. Then, another sound was added to the screaming, a loud crash, then it was quiet.

Ashe opened her eyes, almost panting. She looked around for her parents, hoping that they hadn't seen her 'episode'. Normally she was able to keep them to herself, but this one was different; this building was different. She spotted her parents on the stage and breathed a sigh of relief. They thought she was strange enough without them knowing about this.

She plopped down in one of the red velvet seats while she waited for her parents. As she sat there, her eyes began to stray toward the boxes, almost of their own accord. Each box was surrounded by a decorative golden frame made of sculptures of gods and goddesses, with dark red velvet curtains covered the inside of each box, concealing whatever lay within. Suddenly, Ashe saw something move in one of the boxes, something large and black briefly crossing her vision. She kept her face carefully blank. She couldn't see it very clearly, but she casually turned away, trying to ignore the fast that she knew there was a ghost watching them.

XXX

Before the disastrous fire, the Opera House had housed several hundred people, and when it had been rebuilt, the architects had left in the tiny flats from the original plans. The flats had never been used, and they were now available for the acting managers to live in, if they so choose. Her parents had decided they would live in the Opera House so while they got settled into their apartment in the west wing of the opera house, she chose the flat farthest away.

The rooms she chose held an air of sadness, but it was a feeling she could deal with. Like the rest of the opera house it was bright, with small gold statues surrounding the room. It looked like it was right out of an old Victorian picture as if it had been preserved just the way it had looked so many years ago. The baseboards were a bright cream color and gold decor hung scattered about the room.

She turned and saw a large painting of a rather handsome woman in her prime, wearing a bright red and gold costume. On her head was a very elaborate headdress with red and orange feathers. Long, red-orange hair wrapped in gold ribbons streamed around her pale shoulders. Whoever the woman was, she was holding a sliver platter with a severed man's head on it. Ashe smiled for the first time that day and nodded toward the lady in the painting. It was, so far, the only thing she liked in the opera house. Ashe walked farther into the room and saw a large mirror on the other side of the room. It stretched from floor to ceiling a masterpiece in gold and woodwork. She hated mirrors, and had no true use for the things, but for some reason this one mesmerized her. She reached out and lightly touched its surface.

A wave of emotions suddenly flooded through her, forcing her to her knees. If emotions could be cold, as in _feeling _cold, then she freezing. She was literally chilled to the bone. Her whole being convulsed with shivers, her teeth chattering wildly. Abruptly, the cold changed to hot. She was burning up, as though she had been thrust into a furnace. The emotions flooding through her were ever changing. Then, as suddenly as it begun, it was over. Ashe waited for a minute before she even tried to stand. Oh god! The emotions that had over flowed into her! All kinds! Fear, hate, love, sadness and lust! The lust was the strongest. Remembering the intense feelings of desire, she blushed and climbed to her feet. She'll never touch that… thing again! Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

Ashe jumped.

"What?" she snarled, turning to face the door.

"It's only me, Chloe. May I come in?" her mother asked.

"Sure, I don't care." Ashe replied, picking up her green and black sleeping bag and unrolling it on top of the bed, which was in a very elaborate golden cove of its own.

Her mother poked her head in. "Wow Chloe, nice rooms!" she exclaimed. "Isn't this the greatest? Oh, you choose this room. If the stories are correct, this may be Christine Daae's old room. And… that must be La Carlota." she said, spotting the painting as she walked further into the room. "I'm sure we can remove it tomorrow."

"I like it."

"Oh. Well… it is your room. Good night honey. Don't like the phantoms bite!"

Ashe groaned, "Really Mother, you sound like you're some silly fan girl when you say that. It is only a story. The Phantom of the Opera is not real. It's only a story."

Her mother formed a pout, but left.

Ashe glanced behind her at the mirror. "Only a story," she mumbled, "Only a story." Taking a sheet out of her bag, she unfolded it and slowly walked up to the mirror. Without touching it, Ashe threw it over the mirror, effectively covering it. "There. Better." Dusting her hands off, she quickly changed into a smoky gray nightgown before crawling into the sleeping bag. She tossed and turned for a long time before she finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**A big thanks to HurogWalker**

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera.**

**Chapter 3**

**XXX**

The Specter watched the proceedings from the dark corners of the Opera. Though no one ever saw him, his old habits hadn't died with him. The employees had once called him The Phantom of the Opera and he'd called himself the Opera Ghost. It had never occurred to him that he would actually become a literal Opera Ghost.

His eyes narrowed in annoyance when he saw the new managers walk into the foyer. He had known this day was coming. New mangers were to follow the former Monsieur Francis DuMesnier. The old man was getting to be much too old to manage such a high maintenance building. When he heard that the old man was retiring he'd waited for the news on who the new managers would be. The day had finally come and the news was in that the new managers would be a husband and wife. They had been hand-selected from a roster of three hundred. They were American! He thought it was rather quaint. It would be amusing, but he also dreaded the fact that his Opera House would be run by foul Americans who were little better than tourists themselves.

Over the years, the Opera House had become a mere museum with only the occasional ballet, and even rarer operas held within its grand walls. Tourists had taken, Nasty noisy people. With each passing year, parents seemed to forget how to discipline their children, and the uncivilized brats ran about being destructive. The tours rattled his nerves and it became clear that almost nowhere in the Opera House was private anymore. The only thing that was completely off limits was the hidden caverns. When the tours started no one had really any desire to see the cellars, but then, due to numerous retellings of his life story, the tours became larger and noisier. At first, the trickle of fans had been small, but as the years progressed, more and more came to the Opera House, and more and more desired to see Box Five and the previously uninteresting cellars. Finally, the managers at the time had rewritten the rules. They had refused to put people's lives in danger, considering the slippery floors, rodents, spiders and other unseen creatures living in most of the caves.

One thing he had become grateful for was the sound structure of his former lair. The Opera House had not collapsed completely, and the stone doorways that he had built all those years ago to confuse and deter unwanted 'guests' from finding his home were untouched and unfound. The huge iron gate that was covered in a thin layer of stone was forever closed. He wasn't even sure it would work after years of being unused.

The Specter slipped back further into memory. He remembered running the sharp blade up into his heart. He remembered the brief pain then the numbness that spread through his body and then no more. Or at least no more of the events. He remembered fading in and out of a dark hazy fog. It had been like being intoxicated. No feeling, no sound, no sense of smell or sight. He hadn't even been able to think properly. And then almost without warning he had just been there. He had staggered with the shock; falling to his knees and putting a hand to his head, trying to clear what was left of his confusion. When he had recovered a little, he had gotten to his feet and looked around. Distress and anxiety had filled him as he had looked around his ruined lair. The whole room was filled with the sent of rat droppings and mold and other unpleasant rotting smells. His old furniture, clothes, papers, the heavy velvet drapes, all were faded and rotten. He remembered moving up to the organ that had once been his pride. It lay in smashed ruins, its ivory keys broken. He had stared at it for a moment in horror. "No…" he had gasped. With fervent fingers he had tried to press on a combination of pegs that were craved into the side of the organ.

It was then he found out.

His fingers had passed through the wood.

From then on he knew that he was indeed dead. After he recovered from the madness he had slipped into upon finding out he was a ghost, he began to see the irony in that fact. He had seen the beautiful irony in the fact that he had lived as a ghost while he had been alive, and now he actually was one. Once he was over that, he had begun to wonder what else had changed. He knew that many years had passed, judging by how rotten things were.

He had made his way to the rooftop and had been shocked by the changes in the world. The Opera House was fully rebuilt, this he knew. He _felt_ it. No, it was the people who had changed. The way they walked, the way they talked, dressed, and even acted. The women seemed more confident and the men treated them like equals. The shock was almost too much and he returned to the lair. Finally, inquisitiveness got to him and he returned to the upper levels. It was then he began to find out more. He discovered that no one could see him. A few may have felt his presence, but they never saw him. He couldn't take a step off of the Opera Garnier's foundation. He was somehow attached to the Opera House. He also learned, to his immense displeasure that the Opera only preformed operas occasionally, and instead had become the traditional home for ballets. He had been a ghost for thirty-two years when he found this out, and he had slipped into such a state that he had merely haunted the building in a state of mindless depression. At the time he had not been aware that the building itself shadowed his own emotions. The dark mood caused the humans to feel it, and the aura was such that it was decided a newer, brighter building was needed for the ballet. A monstrosity was built, and it was aptly named The Opéra Bastille. His beautiful _Opéra de Paris_ became a mere shadow of its self. Much like him.

The rage it set him in had been palpable. When he heard the news and saw the pictures of the newer building, he had flown into such a state of anger that the lights had brightened to a white-hot intensity, with a few fuses blowing. In the office, where he had been at the time, a foul smelling wind had whipped around, turning the papers and other lightweight objects in the office into a miniature tornado. The occupants had been scared nearly to death and they had truly believed it to be the work of a ghost. It had given him a small thrill even though they later blamed it on the wind from the _closed_ window. From that day on, he had come up out of his foul moods and begun to practice his newfound strengths. He had soon been able to move objects for a short amount of time, and talk to some people, though that had proved disastrous due to the fact that half the time no one heard him, and if they did it was in a beautiful, garbled whisper. All in all, he found that he could control all of the building, to a degree. He had become the soul of the _Opéra de Paris. _Although, no one seemed to listen to the soul very much.

He had mostly opposed the idea of American managers. Especially if they had chosen to live in the mostly empty Opera House. True, he was excited at the idea of something new, but at the same time, he dreaded it. All the noise from feet and voices were annoying and distressing enough, and now he had to deal with boisterous Americans.

A piercing whistle caught his attention, and brought him back to the present. He looked down at the two humans that were making their way up the Grand Staircase. It was the woman that had whistled. She was calling to someone behind her.

"Chloe, _come on!_ Pick up your feet."

No one had mentioned a third party. He continued to watch, an almost bored expression on his face.

Soon, A magnetized pull had him looking more closely at the girl that walked hesitantly into the room. She was an ordinary height, a bit too thin, and she was dressed like most of the younger generation. All black seemed to be the fashion, and all black was what she was wearing. A black blouse with the shoulders bares, a long black skirt, and black sunglasses covering her eyes. The girl had not even bothered to take the things off when she came inside. He watched with renewed interest as she shifted a leather shoulder bag and finally pulled her sunglasses off as she shot her mother a dirty look. Even from this distance, he could see the mismatched eyes that graced her face. Her left eye was an ordinary dark brown, but her right eye was a light blue that seemed to almost mirror the pale blue of his own eye. He watched intently as she began to clench her teeth and hurried up the stairs after her parents, who were disappearing into the small hall that led to the auditorium.

The Specter turned, simply walking through the wall. He came out on the other side and stood on the second level, amongst the golden statues. They hadn't turned on all the lights, and he was shrouded in darkness. Slowly, he made his way to the right, going to Box Five out of habit. He made his way there by simply walking through columns and chairs and everything else that stood in his way, keeping an eye on the proceedings of the three humans in the auditorium below him.

The two adults were standing in the center of the room, admiring the fabulous architecture and the massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The girl, however, had walked slowly into the huge domed room. She came to stand directly underneath the chandelier, her head tilted back as far as if would go.

He turned away and entered his box. When he looked out again, He saw that her expression of boredom and disinterest had changed to one of pain. Her eyes were squeezed shut and rose and fell more dramatically as she breathed heavily.

Suddenly her eyes snapped open, and she looked around, presumably searching for her parents, since she sighed when she spotted them, seeming relieved.

He continued to watch as she flopped down in one of the red velvet seats, her eyes straying toward the boxes. As she did this, the Specter began to feel bored again, so he stepped back and turned, beginning to wander though the Opera House, knowing he would have more time to learn about these intruders later.

XXX

When his wanderings brought him back around to the humans, it was much later that night. He discovered that the husband and wife had taken Madame Giry's old flat. The architects had enlarged a few of the flats by combining them, so the tiny flat was thrice the size it had been during his life. While they got settled into their apartment in the west wing of the opera house, he wandered on, looking for the girl. He didn't so much see her, rather he felt her presence. He could feel everyone in the Opera House, so to speak, but her presence was stronger. He found that she had chosen the flat farthest away from her parents, which happened to be the one that also had belonged to Christine Daae.

He was not as angry as he should have been, he knew. In the past he would have been furious, but not now. The room no longer reflected her, only memories; Memories that he was glad to forget.

When he approached the room, he came through the tunnel behind the mirror. As with his lair, this part of the foundation had not been ruined in the fire. In fact, the back of the mirror had survived, though the first panel of glass had been replaced. The tunnel that led from the mirror to his lair had remained, thankfully, undiscovered. He watched as she tossed her bags onto the bed and began to investigate the rooms, which consisted of a sitting room, a powder room and the main room, which doubled as the bedroom.

He saw her smile[for the first time as she nodded toward La Carlota's painting. He had been annoyed when he had seen that it had been restored. In fact, as he eyed the painting, he remembered that Carlota had never been that beautiful. In fact she had been rather large around the waist and had a mole on her temple. They had gotten the obscenely orange hair right, as well as the arrogance that shone in her face. He looked away from the painting, scanning the room for the girl, only to find that she had moved up to the mirror and was standing right before him.

Finally, he got to see her up close. Her pale skin was smooth, with no visible blemishes, though there was a dark pink mole in the hollow of her throat. Her head was a distinctive egg shape, and her long black hair was thick. The ends of her hair, as well as the tips of her bangs had been dyed a bright shade of blood red. Her face was pretty enough; if anything, her mouth seemed a little too wide, but that was no major fault. it was her eyes that were striking. The left was a deep brown, almost black, and the right was light blue. He could see now that her eye was a lighter blue than his single blue eye. Her eyes were a straight color, with no other colors mixed in, just a blue so light it was almost white. He watched as she raised a hand to touch the surface of the mirror, doing the same thing himself. This time however, his fingers didn't go through the backing. His chest heaved as waves of emotions suddenly flooded through him. Memories of fear, hate, love, sadness and desire roiled through his mind, dredging up feelings and memories of Christine. He saw that the girl had fallen to her knees, and was shivering, and then watched as her pale face flushed as if she suddenly grew hot. He watched her as he did his best to rein in his own shock. The girl got to her feet, though her cheeks were still flushed.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, causing him to start slightly, but the girl jumped more. He smirked.

"What?" she snarled, turning to face the door.

"It's only me, Chloe. May I come in?" the girl's mother asked.

_Chloe, _he remembered, _her name is Chloe._

"Sure, I don't care." Chloe replied, picking up a green and black sleeping bag and unrolling it on top of the bed.

Chloe's mother poked her head in. "Wow Chloe, nice rooms!" she exclaimed. "Isn't this the greatest? Oh, you choose this room. If the stories are correct, this may be Christine Daae's old room. And… that must be La Carlota." she said, spotting the painting as she walked further into the room. "I'm sure we can remove it tomorrow."

"I like it."

"Oh." The girl's mother blinked at that, and seemed unsure of what to say next, after a moment saying, "Well… it is your room. Good night honey. Don't like the phantoms bite!"

Chloe groaned and rolled her eyes, "Really Mother, you sound like you're some silly fan girl when you say that. It is only a story. The Phantom of the Opera is not real. It's only a story."

The plump woman pouted, but left.

The girl glanced behind her at the mirror. "Only a story," he heard her mumble, "Only a story." The Specter watched with slight amusement as she took a sheet out of her bag and unfolded it, slowly walking back up to the mirror. Without touching it, she threw the sheet over the mirror, effectively covering it. He no longer saw her clearly, but it didn't mater. He turned and moved on.

_So she thinks my story is fiction does she? Well, one thing is for certain, she is aware of more things then most humans are. This ghost is very much real, and will be haunting her. It will make things much more interesting around here,_ he thought with an amused smirk.


	4. Chapter 4

**A big thanks to HurogWalker**__

**And thank you to the two ****anonymous reviewers **_**SexyKnickers **_**and**_** PhantomWaffles**_**; thank you for reading and reviewing.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera.**

xxxx

Chapter 4

Xxxx

Ashe slowly opened her eyes. She frowned at the sight of the room, trying to remember where she was. As it came back to her she sat up. She was in one of the flats of the Paris Opera House. She sat there on the bed, her knees pulled up to her chest as she tried to wake up. Finally deciding she had procrastinated long enough, she slid out of her sleeping bag and zipped it back up. She picked her bag up and slung it up onto the bed. Rummaging through it, she pulled out a pair of dark blue jeans and a black sleeveless turtleneck. Pulling them on she was just about done when the hair on the back of her neck stood up. For her, that meant only one thing. There was a specter lurking nearby. Ashe finished tying the laces on her leather boots and slipped out of the room. A piece of paper taped to her door caught her eye. She ripped it off and read it as she walked down the hall. It was a note from her parents saying that they had to go to the document offices and finished filling out paper work. Ashe crumpled the note in her hand as she slowly walked down the corridor. The whole Opera House was silent, but she began to have a strange feeling that she was being followed as she walked through the corridors. She pulled out one of the master keys that her parents had given to her yesterday, and ducked through the large double doors on her left, after quickly unlocking them.

She leaned against the door, waiting for the presence that had been following her to move on. She felt it stop by the doors and held her breath, praying that it didn't follow her. Finally after what felt like forever, she felt it move on. Breathing out a sigh of relief, she looked around, seeing that she was in some kind of library. The ceiling must have been at least 50 feet high, and it was filled from top to bottom with books. Eyes widening at the sight of all the books, she slowly walked through the room. She finally stopped at a tall shelf. Her ring-covered fingers played against the spines of the books and she eventually chose one at random. She pulled out a thick, heavy red leather book and carried it to a large brown and red velvet chair and sat down. Opening it, she began to read, finding that it was a list of past Opera Singers and their biographies.

XXXX

The Specter was getting sadistic pleasure from watching the girl hurry though the corridors. By now he had come to realize that she was one of the more sensitive people. She knew he was there. He knew she knew he was there, and he was exploiting that fact. After years of the same thing happening day-in and day-out, he had gotten terribly bored and now was tormenting the girl for his own amusement.

It was entertaining. A mean smirk pulled at his lips, as memories of the glory days came back to him. The days when he was alive and he used to scare the chorus girls and tiny ballerinas. He stayed to the shadows as the girl quickened her pace and finally ducked into the library. She slammed the double doors closed just as he stepped out from the shadows. He stared at the doors for a few minutes contemplating whether or not to go in. Finally deciding against it, he turned and walked back through the wall. The girl lived in the Opera House now. He would wait and let her run into him to see what would happen.

XxX

More than an hour passed before Ashe raised her head from the book. She looked up at the large grandfather clock and saw how long it had been, closing the book and getting to her feet with a satisfying stretch. She walked to the doors and creaked one of them open and stuck her head out off the room. The air was clear, with no sign of the presence. It was gone. Who or what could have had so much hate, she wondered as she let out a sigh of relief. She slipped out of the library and continued on her way through the halls. It was a Sunday so there was no one but she and her parents, and both of them had left earlier to sign some papers. She was alone in the Opera house. It was the perfect time to explore.

Ashe's parents didn't know about her ability. Her ability to sense, see, talk to and hear ghosts. Spirits. Poltergeists and all of the other fancy names they had for dead people that lingered. She preferred it like that. They thought she was strange enough without her telling them, _'I see dead people.' _

Ashe went to the hall the held the Grand Staircase and walked up the peach colored marble until she came to the same doors that she and her parents had gone in before. She stared at the large doorway that held the two dark wooden doors then turned and went left, up the second set of stairs until she came to the second level, looking out over the ledge. She stood there for a few minutes before she turned and continued though the halls on the left side. She came to another door and paused, then turned the gold plated doorknob and went in the door led to a dark hallway that had a row of doors and there was a staircase at the end of the hall. She walked down the dark wood-paneled hall and opened the middle door. It led to a semi private box. She closed the door and walked on to the staircase, going up the slightly winding flight of stairs. They led to another hallway that had the same décor as the hallway below her.

She walked on, ignoring the doors this time walking straight on to another staircase at the opposite end of the hall, climbing that one until she was at the third floor. Again, she ignored these doors and walked on to the staircase at the end of the hall. But as she began to pass by the last door, something made her stop. She looked to her right and saw the normal-looking door of the larger private boxes.

Ashe felt a cold chill creep up her spine and reached out to touch the door. A moment after her fingers brushed the surface; she pulled her hand back, hissing in pain. The door was hot to touch. She knew that it wasn't real so she gritted her teeth and tried the door, ignoring the red-hot pain that shot up her arm. She normally didn't go looking for the ghosts, as they usually found her, but this one was different. She could somehow sense that, and if she didn't confront the ghostly presences they would never settle down and wouldn't leave her in peace. She was stuck in France until she turned eighteen. And there was something about the presence in this place. She never felt such hatred and fear. It was time to stop jumping and face this thing, whatever it was.

She wrapped her hand tighter around the handle and, in a flash, the pain was gone. She smirked as she reached into her pocket and dug out the master key and unlocked the door. Pushing the door open, she was shocked to see a burst of flames roll out. Ashe let out a gasp as the blast of heat and air came at her, but before it reached her, it disappeared altogether. Ashe let out a heavy, disgusted sigh and blew some strands of black and red hair out of her eyes as she rolled them in disgust at herself for being surprised.

Once she settled her nerves, she took the time to look around the box. The box itself was the same as all others, except this one was more private. It was closed and even had a heavy, deep red curtain that was currently pulled back. The walls were covered in plush red velvet and there were two chairs available. A smooth marble pillar was to the left of the box. Ashe walked across the lush carpet and went over to the edge, looking down into the auditorium. She leaned against the edge, admiring the view. It was one of the best; though the box was on the third level and wasn't as fancily decorated as some of the others it had the best spot to see the whole of the stage.

Her eyes strayed upward and she saw the huge crystal chandelier. All the lights were off, but even so, it held a heavy foreboding.

As she watched, It suddenly shuddered, the crystals tinkling.

Suddenly becoming aware of her surroundings, her mismatched eyes widened. Why hadn't she realized it before? She knew some of the history of the building. It had caught fire back in 1871. A bunch of people had died. This is where the specter had died. Perhaps it had been burned to death? Was that why it was so angry? As she looked around wildly, the air began to get colder and a distinctive foul smell rose.

Without warning, a cold wind began to beat at her. She fell to her knees, the icy wind still blowing furiously through her hair, its icy blast frosting her skin. She shuddered, her warm breath coming out in vapors. It was as if she was in a blizzard. She hugged her arms around herself and opened her eyes a bit, seeing that everything had gone rigged in the cold. The soft curtains and tassels had become stiff as boards, and white ice crystals were forming around the edges.

The wind was cutting into her skin; causing her long hair to whip madly across her face. Not only was the wind ice cold but also was also foul smelling, like rotting meat. As she knelt, over the roar of the wind, she heard high-pitched screaming. She opened her eyes, and standing in front of her was the ghost. The screaming faded into a repetitive shout, "Sortez d'ici!"

His face was contorted in a mask of fury. A cold white porcelain mask covered the right side of his face. The left side that was visible was angry, twisted into hate. But that's not what scared her. What scared her was that he was different than all the others.

Slowly, with the wind still slicing into her skin, Ashe stood up and put her hands over her ears. "Arrête!Arrête!…Stop!Stop!" she screamed back, glaring right at him. The moment their eyes met, the wind suddenly died.

"You can see me? Really see me?"

Ashe sucked in a deep breath. She had been unprepared for his voice. It was a rich baritone that spoke with a pure velvet tone. She had never heard anyone; alive or dead with a voice like his. Finally she spoke, noticing the drastically different timbre in their voices. "Yes. I can see you and hear you. I have always been able to see…ghosts."

"A true medium," he mused aloud, His mind began to race, mulling this over. If she could indeed see him then- he was almost too eager now, his mind racing through the things he could do if this girl could see him.

The girl surprised him by snorting, "No. I prefer 'freak'."

He just stared at her, and then shook his head. "You are not a 'freak,' as you put it."

Ashe rubbed her arms and winced. She looked down and saw that her pale arms had raised red welts on them. She glanced back up at him with a glare "Well, in my book, if you can see and talk to dead people, then you're a freak."

He saw the pain in her gaze and immediately tried to placate her. He had never possessed good social skills, but after being unable to talk to _anyone _for years, he knew he had to pacify her and not get overly impatient. Females were the weaker sex, after all. He had to charm her. He gestured at her arms with his usual dramatic flare. "I am sorry for scaring you. I trust you are not hurt? My temper can get the best of me at times."

Ashe raised an eye bow at the overly done apology. Again she snorted. "Don't worry about it. I'm just grateful that you didn't blow me off the balcony." She gave a half grin. "My name is—"

"Mademoiselle Chloe Ashley Thurbis. Your father and mother are Robert and Carrie Thurbis," He interrupted. "The Paris Opéra is mine. Little happens without my knowing about it.

Ashe winced when he used her first name. "Don't ever call me that! If you want me to answer, you will call me Ashe."

"Ashe, is it? Mademoiselle Ashe I will call you then," he said, bowing low as he spoke.

Ashe sent him a strange look, and then sighed and shook her head, "What's your name?" she asked when he straightened, "I can't just call you 'Ghost'."

"Erik. My name is Erik."


	5. Chapter 5

**A big thanks to HurogWalker**

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera.**

**Also, is there any more phans out there? I know I have been 'dead' for a while but really.**

**A big thanks to those who read and review!**

XXX

Chapter 5

XxX

The two of them stood, staring at each other, both contemplating the other. One was amazed at how different the other seemed; that he was not like the other ghosts that had plagued her most of her life. Erik. He said his name was Erik. The name sounded familiar somehow, but she could not place it.

The Ghost in question was wondering what to do. The fact that she could _see_ him, as well as hear him, had his mind working over time. He needed to think, but he was brought out of his thoughts when he saw her move.

Ashe shifted, started to say something, when she heard her parents call for her. Her eyes narrowed as she growled. _God, I despise them, _she thought. When she was little, she had pretended that she was adopted, but now that she was older and wiser she knew better, but it didn't stop her from comparing how different she was.

She looked back at the ghost. He was gone. The moment she had looked away he had disappeared. Hopefully, she would never see him again. Most ghosts left after they had confirmed that she could see them, and if they wanted to talk, they talked. She usually just zoned out, and unaware of this, they would leave her alone after a while. Most of the ghosts were too weak to really be any bother, other then just getting on her nerves. Others, stronger ones, wanted to stick around. They bothered her, trying to get her to do little things for them, until she threatened to send them straight to purgatory. She didn't know how, but they didn't need to know that.

"Chloe! Where are you Chloe?"

Ashe walked over to the ledge and saw her mother standing in the auditorium, her hands on her wide hips. Her mother wasn't overly fat, but having curves on her figure and middle age catching up to her left her a little too round in places. Her dark blonde hair had sliver streaked through it though it was always styled in the latest fashion. Out of the two of her parents, Chloe looked the most like her father. He was skinny, short, and very mild-mannered, with a mop of wild black hair and pale blue eyes. The only thing Ashe had gotten from her mother was the same wide mouth.

"Chole Ashley!" her mother screamed again, then muttered, "Where is that girl?" Carrie's round face was taking on a very annoyed look.

"Ashe. How many times do I have to tell them?" Ashe growled, looking around the box one last time. When she saw nothing, she leaned out over the ledge of the box. "What?"

Carrie looked up to see her daughter in one of the most famous boxes. She was about to gush out silliness when she saw the annoyed look on her daughter's face. "Oh, your father and me…we're back. And we thought that we would've finished the paperwork at the government offices, but there is still more to fill out. As you know, we can speak French, but we are still rather weak at reading it. We would really love it if you could help us."

Ashe sighed and looked behind her once more. Seeing no one she looked back out at her mother. "Yeah. I'll be there."

"Good. We're in the manager's offices. I trust that you remember were they are?"

Ashe nodded and her mother turned and walked out. She would never figure out how they were able to win the management position. True, they had managed The Metropolitan Opera in New York for ten years, and before that, the La Fenice in Venice, Italy, were she had been born. They could speak and read Italian, and speak French, but they still had trouble reading it. She, on the other hand, knew English and Italian fluently. Her parents had enrolled her in French and Spanish classes in all her schools and it was the one of the few things she was glad that they forced her to do.

Ashe looked around one more time, seeing and feeling nothing. She shrugged to herself, and hurried back the way she had come making sure to lock the door behind her. It took her fifteen minutes to get to the manager's offices, and once she got there, the only thing she saw was the tops of her parents heads. Mounds of paperwork hid them both.

Not bothering to let them know she was there, she leaned against the light colored cherry wood desk. Ashe took the time to look around. The office was slightly circler, with various cabinets and bookshelves. It was large but it seemed smaller with [the] two large desks, an old piano, and a bar in the corner. She tapped her foot and fiddled with her rings. Finally, her father noticed her.

He looked up, seeming surprised, and then smiled. "Oh, Chloe. Were you looking around the Opera House? Do you like it?" Ashe just shrugged, but he ignored her response. "Can you help your mother and I? We know some of this French, but not all of it."

Ashe debated for a moment whether or not to help them. Finally deciding that she would, she nodded and sat down, pulling a stack of papers to her and filing them out, leaving the line for her parents' signature blank. Partway through the evening, Ashe's mother left to get some take-out, and they ate in silence, still going through the stacks of documents. By the time all the paperwork was done, it was rather late. Her parents thanked her and went to bed.

Ashe was left alone again, but that was how she liked it. She went to one of the main power boards and shut the power off. Right away, the dim running lights came on. Ashe glanced around. Now this was more like it: Dark. She loved the dark. She could hide in the velvet darkness; Away from her parents, who wanted her to be more like other girls; Away from criticizing eyes; Away from ghosts. Most of all, away from herself.

Ashe walked through the hallways that were dark, but for the occasional light. She yawned as she came to her room. Opening the heavy oak door, she saw that the black sheet she had tossed over the mirror the night before was in a crumpled pile on the thick carpet in front of the mirror. She growled irritably, snatching the sheet up. Without touching the mirror Ashe threw the sheet back over it.

The hair stood up on the back of her neck as the room suddenly got colder. "What are you doing in here?" She snarled without turning.

"This is _my _Opera house child. You are the one who is trespassing," the Ghost remarked.

Ashe turned, and saw that he was standing by the door. Ashe shook her head at him, her eyebrow raised in question. "Your Opera House? If it ever was, which I highly doubt, it isn't anymore." She smirked at him as his eyes narrowed.

"This has always been my Opera House. The _Palais Garnier _has and will always be mine!" he declared, glaring at her. "Incompetent managers and owners will come and go, but the _Palais Garnier _will always be _mine_!" The anger and frustration in his voice and eyes made Ashe wince, subdued.

The Ghost stood tall and glared at the now quiet girl. She wouldn't meet his eyes and he felt a slight sense of satisfaction about the fact that he had put her in her place. His sense of smug self-satisfaction vanished in an instant, like a popped bubble, as he saw her turn her face away. He'd gotten so irritated as she had provoked him that he'd forgotten he was supposed to be getting her on his side. She was the only one since he had died who had ever heard, seen, or talked to him. He had to win her back, quickly.

"Ah, forgive me, ma chère," he said softly, "I did not mean to be so harsh on you. You are young. Please forgive my rudeness."

Ashe glanced back him. It was the second time that day he had given her an overly excessive apology. She also took the opportunity to get a good look at him. The Specter was thin, almost skinny, though a lot of strength and charisma emanated from him, due to his personality.

The old fashioned Victorian clothing that he wore was elegant. He had a black on black coat and tails and stiff white collar that rose above a black ascot. His vest was a dusty gold brocade fabric, shot with black and copper threads. A heavy looking black velvet cape, lined with black silk hung from his shoulders. The left side of his face, which was unobstructed, was arrogant, but still undeniably handsome. What could be seen of his face was pale, and his eyes were almond-shaped. His one visible eyebrow was an elegant ebony arch; his thick black hair was slicked and brushed back. And then there was the ever so clearly seen mask. It covered the whole of right side of his face. It was a heavy porcelain mask that had a sinister look all of its own. One could say that it was white but it seemed to have a mix of light lavender mixed in with it. But when his eyes met hers, the shocked her most about him were his eyes. Like hers, they were mismatched. They were both blue, but his right eye was much lighter then the other. Both, however, had a golden tint to them.

"Ok fine, whatever. The Opera House is yours. I sure don't want it." Ashe shook her head at him, still confused as to why this ghost was different. "I'd leave now if I could, but I'm still a minor, and I will be until October."

"You, at least," he said pointedly as he stared at her, "are capable of leaving."

Her smile faded. Most of the ghosts that she had met before had been able to come and go, until their energy wore out and they were either able to 'cross over,' or they just faded into mere shadows. She had never met a ghost as old as Erik. "I think I understand," she said quietly.

His eyes snapped back to hers. Anger flashed in them. The air began to grow cold and foul smelling again, as the biting wind began to pick up again. "No, you do not! You do not understand! You are all able to come and go as you please! I am trapped here, and I have been since I died, 135 years ago!"

At first she was surprised. Trapped? For 135 years? Her mind was filled with questions, but she pushed them aside as her own anger rose. "Don't you _dare_ yell at me. Yes, I can 'come and go' but it is not the same! I'm trapped as well! I am forever cursed to see and hear ghosts! I don't know who you were when you were alive, and I don't care! You could have been the King of France, for all I care! But you're dead! So-" Ashe was cut off when he lunged at her. The Specter pushed her in the chest, knocking her back in to the mirror. There was a sickening thud as her head hit the mirror. Her limp form slowly slid down to the floor, her eyes closed.

The Ghost stood frozen in place, appalled at himself. Throughout his entire life, he had never killed, or even struck a woman or child. As a ghost, he had been able to move objects for a short amount of time, but never had he been able to actually touch a human. He had always passed through them. But here, he had touched her. How was he able to do that? His eyes narrowed in thought as he walked over to her and knelt down. He reached out a gloved hand to touch her arm, but it went straight though her skin. Silently, he sighed as he pulled his hand back, watching as she slowly opened her eyes.

Ashe moaned softly in pain and gingerly rubbed the back of her head. She turned an accusing gaze to the ghost kneeling beside her. The questions she had ignored earlier came back to her full force. Of all the ghosts she had met, none of them had been able to make physical contact with her. It unnerved her to the point of discomfort. She scooted into a sitting position and met his eyes, staring right into them as he stared back. Finally, she whispered, "Who _are_ you? Who _were_ you?"

He nodded once and stood, satisfied that she would be alright. He was rather surprised that she still hadn't made any suppositions of whom he might be.

He knew that his life story had been public for some time now. Thankfully, he hadn't been 'alive' at the time, or he would have found some way of making that horrid journalist-turned-writer, Gaston Leroux, think twice before twisting his story. He was thankful that Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber had bothered to get at least some of the facts right, though he was still disgusted that his life had been made a mockery of, and that all his misfortunes and failed love were, in the end, merely something for someone else to get rich off. Due to the book, musical, and then the movie, Phantom admirers, or 'phans' as they called themselves, had become a problem in the Opera House. His mask, whether a half-mask or a full mask, was widely known. _He_ was wide known, but only his story, not himself.

Looking down at her, he shook his head, "You don't know? Well, my dear, " he bowed elegantly, sweeping his cape out behind himself, "I am the Phantom of this Opera house, or the Opera Ghost. I _was_ the Phantom of the Opera. I rather prefer that you call me Erik."

Ashe stood up shakily, still rubbing her head. He had pushed her hard enough that she had blacked out for a few moments. She grimaced as she gently probed the bump that was forming, and then looked at her fingers. No blood. That was a good sign, she knew, though she was certain sure she had hit the mirror hard enough break it, or at least crack it, though there wasn't a mark on it. It sure felt like she had… Then it hit her like a ton of bricks. The Phantom of the Opera. Erik. Of_ course_. Why hadn't she put two and two together? She rolled her eyes and let out a disgusted sigh. "Of course it would have to be the freaken 'Phantom of the Opera' haunting me. I am _such_ a lucky girl," she murmured sarcastically to herself. She sighed heavily and looked over at the Ghost, who had remained quiet, but was now sporting a frown. "So, Erik, right?"

"Yes," he said solemnly.

"Fine, but you call me Ashe. Ok?"

"As you wish Mademoiselle Ashe," he said, bowing.

Ashe rolled her eyes. What was with all the titles? "No, no. Just Ashe, if you expect me to answer."

Erik balled his hands into fists in annoyance at the impertinent American as he gave her a disapproving look. Just as he was about to say something, there was a knock and the door opened. He turned to see Ashe's mother stick her head inside.

"Chloe? You still up? Good. Hon, I was talking to your father, and we both decided to—"

"Let me go on to collage?" Ashe asked too eagerly.

"No, of course not. We agreed that you could go after your birthday. Not a day sooner. You're still too young to be left alone on a big collage campus all by yourself. No, we agreed that you could work the front desk, since you know French so fluently. Well, good night." Her mother told her, and then closed the door.

The fake smile that Ashe had planted on her face faded, and she picked up a red and gold pillow from the lounge seat and threw it at the door, the pillow passing though Erik harmlessly. It hit the door and bounced off, landing on the floor with a soft thump. She began cursing, and Erik raised an eyebrow, shaking his head at her behavior. "What a temper, chère. Dare I inquire as to what brought this on?"

She glared at him. "Will you ever leave? I would like some privacy."

A small smirk played on his lips. "I will leave in a moment, after you tell me why you're so upset over the task that was given you." He crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his chin. "Well?"

"I don't have to tell you anything," she retorted.

"You do if you want me to leave the room. I do not sleep, but you do." A spiteful smirk crossed his lips. "You would be heading to bed rather soon wouldn't you?"

Ashe's jaw slackened at the audacity this ghost displayed. Then, after a moment she closed her mouth and glared at him, throwing her hands up. "Fine. I don't get along with people very well. They should know this. It got me into plenty of fights at school. Now can you go?"

He bowed mockingly. "Forgive me. I will leave, but I _will_ see you tomorrow."

Ashe had to fight the urge to hurl another pillow at his back as he turned and walked through the closed door.


	6. Chapter 6

**A big thanks to HurogWalker**__

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera.**

XXXX

Chapter 6

The next morning, Ashe was at the front desk wearing less black then she would have normally. When she had shown up at the breakfast table that morning, her parents had taken one look at her and told her to change. Their excuse was that they didn't want her to scare away any visitors. She had scoffed at them and told them she didn't care, but she had changed anyway. She had not been in the mood to argue with them. She'd had a bad night; tossing and turning and even when she did finally fall asleep, it wasn't restful and she had awoken even more exhausted than she had been the night before.

So that she wouldn't have to fight with her parents, she had donned a long-sleeved gray silk shirt and black dress pants, which hid most of her leather boots. Her red-and-black hair was pulled back into a simple braid. Yawning, she sat at the desk, drawing circles on the shiny wooden surface with her fingertip. Leaning forward until her nose touched the polished wood, she breathed on it until it fogged up and then pulled back to draw on the fogged-up wood. After a while, she leaned back in the chair and yawned again, bored. It was a simple job; one that she had done many times back in New York. All she had to do was direct the tourists to where the tour guide was and answer phone calls.

The entire day was uneventful, consisting of her answering questions and taking calls when they came and directing lost people to where they needed to be. Ashe had just pointed some German tourists in the direction they needed to go to meet up with their tour when the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

"Oh no, not again," she groaned. Turning, she wasn't surprised to see the Ghost watching her. "Go away," she hissed irritably.

"As I have told you before, I can not leave. Besides," he said, his tone almost seeming amused, "you are the only one who can see me, and I find that rather interesting, Mademoiselle Ashe."

Ashe snorted. "Gee, thanks, I'm so glad to be your source of entertainment," she said sarcastically. Glancing around, she saw that the few workers and guests who were nearby weren't paying her any attention, so she turned her attention back to the Ghost. "Don't you have anything else to do other then bother me? If you want someone to haunt, go haunt someone else."

"When one has only seen what is allowed to be seen, and has gone as far as one is permitted to go for many years," he said, eyeing her, "then when something new comes along, something different, then of course the being in question would be rather curious. Therefore, chère, you are of interest to me. I intend to find out more about you."

He paused for a moment, seeming to ponder that before continuing. "In all my years as a ghost, no one has ever been able to see me. Oh, a few sensed I was around, but they mostly passed it off as having an overactive imagination and didn't bother to search deeper or try to find out more. So the very fact that you can see me as clearly as you see any other human gets more intriguing by the second."

Ashe stared at him, trying to process what he had just said. After a moment, she shook her head, turning away from him in an attempt to ignore him. _Maybe,_ she thought, _if I ignore him long enough he'll get bored and leave me alone._ So Ashe did everything she could to ignore him by avoiding looking at him or showing any indication that she knew he was standing just beyond the counter, a little to her right.

During the next ten minutes, she answered two phone calls, the entire time knowing he was there and staring at her. Her eyes kept glancing over at him of their own accord, and even when she concentrated on not seeing him, she still caught glimpses out of the corner of her eye. Every time she saw him, it seemed that he wasn't even paying attention to her, but when she wasn't looking something in the back of the mind told her that he was indeed studying her. Finally, unable to stand it any more, she spun around. "Do you mind?"

_"Qué?"_ A short older man had been reaching out to tap her shoulder.

Ashe's eyes widened. The poor old man stood there, obviously confused about why she had snapped at him. After apologizing profusely in Spanish and personally showing him were the tours were, Ashe sank back down into the office chair at the desk, her head lowered. Again, the hair on the back of her neck prickled. She lifted her head and her eyes narrowed as she caught sight of the Ghost.

Erik didn't say anything, but the knowing glint in his eyes had Ashe's blood boiling as she gritted her teeth.

Later that night, Ashe knocked on her parent's door and asked her mother for a book. She didn't bother to ask for a specific one. She knew her mother would give her "Phantom of the Opera". It was a book that Carrie had been trying to get Ashe to read for years. Her mother had been deeply disappointed that The Phantom of the Opera was not as popular in France as it was in New York. Nevertheless, she was always trying to get Ashe interested in the story. But Ashe had enough ghosts in her life without reading a ghost story. But now, Ashe took the book from her mother's outstretched hands without comment. She wanted to find out more about the Opera Ghost.  
XXX

Ashe stretched, balancing her chair back on two legs, staring vacantly at the table in front of her. She had spent the last several hours in the library, pouring over the text of Gaston Leroux's "The Phantom of the Opera," scribbling notes and observations to review later. She was almost done with the book now.

Apparently, the story of the Phantom of the Opera was real, and not fictional, though she had noticed a few inaccuracies. For one thing, the Ghost she had met was not old, as the man in the book was, and for another, the Ghost only wore a half-mask. It stood to reason that only half of his face was deformed.

Ashe slowly shook her head as she contemplated what she had read. 'Monster' falls in love with a beautiful, yet witless girl; hero saves girl; 'monster' dies. The story overall was not very original.

"No wonder I never read this. This is one of the most dumbest books I've ever read." she mumbled to herself. She turned the last page of the book, and read the last sentence. Scoffing, she closed the book and rubbed her tired eyes. It was then she felt someone watching her. Looking up, she saw the Ghost sitting across from her, his face blank.

She let out a surprised gasp and shoved her chair backward, away from the table. The leg of the chair caught in the rug and instead of scooting, the chair tipped over, sending Ashe tumbling to the hard floor. "Owww!" she yelped as her head hit the floor, sending a jolt of pain through her. Hearing laughter, she pushed herself to her feet.

The Ghost was still seated at the table laughing at her, his gray-green-gold eyes flashing his amusement. She marched around the table and came up beside him, glaring down at him. "So you think it is funny do you? Well, you can laugh at this!" Anger pushed aside logic, and she forgot for a moment that she should not be able touch him, forgot that he had already shown that he was prone to angering easily. She pulled her fist back and punched him in the shoulder. It went right though him. She pulled back, cursing. "I wish that you were alive so that I could kill you!" she snarled, and Erik stopped laughing abruptly.

When her fist pulled back, he grabbed it. He held it tightly, squeezing it almost to the point of pain. The room grew cold and the lights dimmed enough that Ashe could hardly see anything.

She gasped as the ice-cold chill numbed her hand. His much bigger hand fully encased hers. She stared in shock at the gloved hand that was painfully squeezing her fist. He was icily cold, and her hand felt as though it had been entombed in a block of solid ice. Standing up, he pulled her closer and glared down at her. Before now, she hadn't realized how tall he was.

They stood like that for only a moment before he whispered, "What makes you so sure that if I were alive that I wouldn't kill you, chère?" Then, losing his concentration, his hand went though her skin. He snarled, and disappeared.

Ashe let out the breath she didn't realizing that she was holding. Looking around at the mostly dark library, she shivered in the still-cold air. She snorted in an unladylike manner as she reached across the table and grabbed the book. _Smart, real smart, _she chided herself. It was just like her to unthinkingly anger the one ghost who could actually hurt her if he wanted to.

She shook her head. "Shit." she muttered as she glanced at her watch. It was three in the morning. She needed to get to bed; she had to work the front desk again tomorrow. Clicking the lights off and walking back to her room, she kept a wary eye out for the ghost, but she didn't see or feel him anywhere nearby. After reading the book, she had an idea as to where he went when he wasn't pestering her. The book had mentioned a house by the lake; so, he may be down there. Ashe didn't care where he was, so long as he was not near her. She came to her door and paused before opening it. She let out a low growl when she saw the sheet lying in a crumpled heap on the floor in front of the mirror. The thing simply would not stay covered. Gritting her teeth, she snatched it up and, making sure she didn't touch the mirror itself, she tucked the sheet into the corners of the mirror.

Standing back, she stared at her handiwork. _Not bad,_ she thought. She sat down on the bed that was made up in her old sheets. All of her personal things had finally been delivered and, with slight glee, Ashe had stripped the red velvet blankets off the bed, closely followed by the gold sheets. They had ended up in a pile that Ashe had sent off with a small sarcastic wave. The elaborate bed was now covered with black and deep burgundy sheets and comforters. Yawning, she took a final glance around the room. She hadn't been allowed the make too many changes, but with a few well placed black lights and dim lighting would have seemed creepy to most people. To her, it was comforting and, as she had argued to her parents; wasn't that what a bedroom was supposed to be?

She had won that particular battle. They had backed out, her mother mumbling something about 'why did I have a daughter like this?' and her father grumbling that, ' she had no respect for the beauty of the building.' Ashe had rolled her eyes and shut the door.

Flopping back onto the soft mattress, she reached out and pulled a pillow close, stuffing it under her head. She lay there staring up at the darkened ceiling until sleep came.

Xxxx

The rest of the week went by uneventfully. Ashe didn't saw nor heard from the ghost, so for several days she was uncharacteristically cheerful and less snappy with her parents. But as she soon found out, it wouldn't last.

After the last tourist had left, and the last rug was vacuumed, and the polished floors shone, and the last worker had gone home, Ashe found herself alone. Her parents had gone to some social meeting that she had managed to talk her way out of. She had absolutely nothing to do. Not wanting to wander in the streets and not being in the mood to go to her room, she began to wander around the Opera house.

Having already explored most of the other rooms and the offices, and having no further interest in seeing them again, she walked through the hallway to the Grand Staircase and up the stairs. Soon, she reached the large doorway to the amphitheater.

Ashe pushed the doors open, and before long, she was standing in the center of the room. As in the rest of the Opera House, most of the lights were off, with only a few lights here and there. The high ceiling and the massive chandelier were dark, with the running lights on the lower level providing the only illumination. She walked slowly down the main aisle, heading toward the stage. Stopping at the orchestra pit, next to where the conductor stood, she looked around and spotted a small stairway leading up onto the stage. Ashe shrugged to herself and climbed up onto the stage and looked out across the auditorium.

_Whoa_, Ashe thought. _One would definitely have to have guts to perform up here,_ she decided as she looked all around her. She turned away from the frightening landscape of seats, where she could almost picture hundreds of people sitting and watching her, and walked across the polished wood floor and toward the back of the stage where sets for the following week's ballet production were being put together. She continued farther back, her path lit only by dim lights here and there. The smooth, glossy floor gave way to an older, scuffed floor that was still well cared for, but was not waxed like the outer stage was, which gleamed like a mirror.

She stopped, not sure what to do or were to go from here. Looking up into the flies and the mess of ropes, she discovered that everything soon faded into utter darkness, a gloom so deep she couldn't make out the ceiling at all. Making her way over to one side, she climbed the metal stairs leading to the first series of metal grates that were the catwalks. She moved around the ropes with ease, going from one platform to another until she was about 30 feet above the stage on a narrow catwalk. She stopped and, with a sigh, sat down on the edge, her legs dangling over the side. Ashe closed her eyes, and rested her head on the rope that connected the catwalks and served as a railing.

"Enjoying the view?" a voice asked behind her.

Ashe jerked in surprise and her sudden movement caused the catwalk to sway. Letting out a gasp she lost her balance, slipping off. Acting on sheer instinct she managed to grab onto the rope, belatedly noticing that the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up. Her breath came in gasps and she didn't have the courage to look down. Her hands were sweating and she was having trouble holding on to the slender rope, which was bowed and straining under her weight. Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm herself so that she would have a chance of getting out of this predicament alive.

"Now this something," a voice commented dryly above her.

Ashe looked up to see the ghost staring down at her. The faint lighting below threw sinister shadows across his imposing figure. He had an odd look on his face.

"Now, I could walk away, or wait and see how long it takes you to figure out how to get back on the catwalk, or how long before your hands give out and you fall," he said in a calm, cold voice.

Ashe closed her eyes, terrified.

"Or, I could help you."

Her eyes snapped open. Help her? Why would he help her?

"Oh, the numerous chooses." He sneered down at her.

Not wanting to admit that she needed help, but with her arms already beginning to ache, Ashe spoke, though it came out as a whisper.

"I'm sorry. I did not catch that. I imagine that if you fall you will live, but it would hurt quite a lot. Considering how caring and concerned your parents are, you would lay down there for a reasonably long time. But then, if you fall the wrong way, you could die." The Ghost carefully knelt by her, his face grim.

Seeing that she had no choice but to ask for help, Ashe closed her eyes, clenching her teeth. "Will you please help me?" she managed.

Letting out an obnoxious chuckle, he stood. "Since you asked so nicely, this is what you do:swing your legs to the underside of the catwalk. There is a bar there. Hook your legs over that bar, and then you can climb back up."

Cursing in all the languages she knew, Ashe started to swing her legs forward, towards the catwalk as the Ghost had said to do. She felt her hands starting to give way. She pointed her toes and managed to hit the bar twice. One final big swing and she hooked the backs of her ankles to the bar at an odd vertical angle while she still held onto the rope for dear life.

"Yeah, this is great." She muttered as she slowly shimmied her feet forward until she had her knees bent around the bar. Her weight was taken off her hands, and she shifted her grip, wanting to be a little more secure this time, in case she slipped again. Ashe took a few deep breaths, and then eased her right leg up. She ended laying half on half off the catwalk. As she rested for a moment, she felt large hands grab her under the arms and lift her easily onto her feet.

Taking a deep breath, she looked up into mismatched gray-green eyes. The Ghost was staring down at her. Ashe took a step back, pushing against his temporarily solid chest. "Personal space here," she murmured.

An awkward silence stretched out for a few minutes until he finally spoke. "What were you doing up here?"

"I wanted to see if it was any different from the catwalks of The Metropolitan Opera," she said simply.

"Ah. Is it then?"

"No," she said after a moment, staring out toward the auditorium. "It's exactly the same."

The Ghost began to back up, fading as he did. The movement caused Ashe to look back at him. This time, she noticed, he was floating. She remembered the he had walked the lasted time they had met and the time before that he had floated, just as he was doing now. "Wait. Uh…um…thank you…Erik."

The Ghost stopped fading. "You're welcome, Ashe," he said.


End file.
